


The Rizla Game

by modiste



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modiste/pseuds/modiste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is John’s last Saturday night, in London, as a ‘single’ man! He might not want to be in bed by—“ she scanned the minute-by-minute itinerary until she alighted on ‘Hot Cocoa - Acquire from Mrs. Hudson’; “eleven forty-five.”</p><p>Stuck for ideas for John's stag do, Molly teaches Sherlock how to play the Rizla game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rizla Game

He was there before Molly came in, early to work on Saturday morning - it was raining, but she was intrigued by her current assignment: an unidentified body, unexplained cause of death.

She had managed to catch him bent over his laptop, fingers working furiously, his face screwed up in concentration. He swore underneath his breath and rewound the video he was watching. “There, just there, that’s it…”

“Sherlock? Are you…watching video tutorials on making roses out of marzipan?”

He jumped as if scalded and snapped the laptop shut. “It’s a case. It’s all to do with a case. Very important case.”

“What about?”

He frowned. “Patisserie…?”

Molly waited. She was reminded of a recent attempt to plug in her old, broken radio; wires fizzing and short-circuiting.

“How long have you been awake?”

“About seventy-two hours.”

“Ah.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and began massaging his temples. “Cake decorations. For John’s wedding.”

Molly turned to the bench to conceal her smile. “Oh sure, for “John’s wedding”.”

“If I can’t get these perfect by this afternoon I’ll just have to use the fake ones.” He sent a craft knife hurtling across the room in exasperation.

“What, these?” Molly picked up a tray filled with handmade silk lilies, each one intricately tied up with purple grosgrain ribbon; Mary’s favourite colour, she noted. “That wouldn’t be so bad— Oh!” She’d uncovered Sherlock’s pub crawl “research”: a densely annotated Ordnance Survey map, complete with photographs, TripAdvisor reviews, and, attached at one corner, several graphs labelled “Dr. John Watson: Average Daily Fluid Output”, which she pretended not to notice.

“John’s stag night - it’s tonight, isn’t it? This looks…amazing.” Sherlock joined her, squashing the offending sugarpaste flower in frustration onto the desk.

Molly peered at the starting point, seemingly an unlikely place. “Why are you starting at the Sainsbury’s in Whitechapel, exactly?”

He stared at her, aghast. “Because that’s the scene of the first Ripper murder! The first serial killer! A mystery that set the whole city on edge, spawned a series of imitators, gave rise to modern detective work, which pushed the art of deduction to the absolute limits of human ingenuity—“

“I know, but if you got off the bus one stop earlier, you could go to the pub which has the—

“—really nice crisps”, they said in unison. “Good point.”

“So from there it’s back to Baker Street via” - she traced the journey with her finger - “the building where John saved you from that cabbie, the tunnels where you saved John from an arrow to the head, the gallery with the faked Vermeer painting, the shop in Chinatown with the lucky cats, and - a restaurant?”

“Where John and I had our first meal together.”

“This is, well.” She looked down at her fingernails. “This is great, Sherlock.”

“What? What is it? You don’t like it?”

“No I do, it’s just… This only takes you up till pub closing time.”

“Yes…?”

“This is John’s last Saturday night, in London, as a ‘single’ man! He might not want to be in bed by—“ she scanned the minute-by-minute itinerary until she alighted on ‘Hot Cocoa - Acquire from Mrs. Hudson’; “eleven forty-five.”

“Hm.”

Molly glanced up at his, slightly panicked, expression, and immediately regretted her comment. Quite by accident the previous week, she’d stumbled across his Pinterest board: 1036 pins and counting, arranged into a confusing web of categories with names like “Tablecloth Arrangements: Less Fancy” and “Correct Cutlery Placement in Rooms with South-Facing Windows”. She’d forwarded the link straight to Scotland Yard, where she understood it was causing much amusement in Greg’s office.

“Why don’t you take him to a club or something?”, she suggested lightly.

Sherlock grimaced. “Dreary. Moustachioed men sat around in wingback armchairs talking about politics. Besides, bound to run into” - he spat out the word - “Mycroft.”

Molly started setting up the microscope. “Not a gentleman’s club, a nightclub”, adding, half joking: “More drinking? Chatting up beautiful women? Dancing?”

“You mean, getting off your face on poorly-conceived and overly sweet cocktails, throwing yourself at random women, and then proceeding to flail around under unflattering multi-coloured strobe lighting to dismal pop songs from the late nineties?”

She sighed. Sherlock had been particularly irritable that week, turning up at the hospital most lunchtimes to mope around and rubbish her, she thought, quite helpful suggestions (“Black forest _gateau_?! Last time I checked, Molly, John wasn’t having his wedding in 1977.”). “Oh I don’t know then, why don’t you just…stay in and play a game or something?”

“Solving a case? Now that could be interesting. Harder, certainly, whilst inebriated, but more of a challenge I suppose…” He picked up one of her slides and she batted his hand away.

“No, I mean: charades, card games, Pictionary, Trivial Pursuit—“ She stopped abruptly, having remembered the encyclopaedic answer Sherlock had once given during a game of the latter, recounted in painful detail by Mrs. Hudson, to a question on the subject of flesh-eating insects. “Although, on second thoughts…”

Sherlock looked sceptical, pen hovering above his itinerary. “Are these…things something you do with Timothy—“

“Tom.”

“— and your friends after, I don’t know” - he gestured towards the box of organs she’d brought upstairs from the mortuary to examine - “your dinner parties, then?”

Molly noted down the cell count and returned to the microscope. “Dinner parties? No, he hates stuff like that, actually. Would always rather be watching a boxset of something. Last night he was so focused on watching _Game of Thrones_ in bed that I had to take—“

“Yes, well”, he cut her off with a forced smile. “No need to elaborate.”

“Tom does like the Rizla game, though”, she went on. “We do that with our friends sometimes. He can always work out his character in under ten clues.” She turned to fetch the next slide and jumped as she came face to face with Sherlock, who at this had swooped in next to her.

“Clues, you say?”

“Yep. You give the other person a name, stick the paper somewhere where they can’t see it, completely random, and they have to guess it using under twenty questions.”

He scoffed contemptuously. “And your _boyfriend_ can work it out in ten? No offence, Molly, but anyone with even a passing acquaintance with the true science of deduction could work out a _name_ with less to go on than that.”

“ _Fiancé_. Alright then”, provoked, she reached for a Post-It note and scribbled down the first name that came into her head. “Ten quid says you can’t work out who that is.” Grinning, she stuck it to him and went back to her slide.

Sherlock inhaled majestically and brought his hands together under his chin, pausing in utter seriousness for a few moments. The effect was only somewhat diminished by the neon pink note attached to his forehead.

“First question. Describe the age, colour, style, label, and size of their shoes to me.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Yes or no answers, Sherlock.” Mind still half on the cells she was counting, she looked directly at the Post-It. “Am I a man? Does my name begin with ‘J’? That sort of thing.”

“What? That’s just imbecilic— Fine.” He huffed, then added sardonically: “Well, you’ve just told me I’m a man and the first letter of my name. So…”

 

_Three hours later_

“So he’s British, first name beginning with ‘J’; no fixed address; travels frequently; always drives too fast; is addicted to gambling; is very particular when ordering alcoholic beverages; works for a secret organisation known only by a string of initials; has a…problematic relationship with women, to say the least; and has been the perpetrator of a number of violent crimes, including the destruction of an historic Venetian palazzo and a fire at a mansion in northern Scotland, in recent years for which he’s never been brought to justice?” Sherlock threw up his hands. “I guess my last question is: should I be attempting to find him and hand him over to the authorities?”

Molly looked up in disbelief from the liver she was dissecting. “How can you not have heard of _James Bond_?!”

At first she’d enjoyed giving incredibly specific answers to his questions, which had only seemed to puzzle him even more (“Always orders that particular drink in that particular way, you say? So he’s both obsessive _and_ old-fashioned, despite the fact that his home life is decidedly unconventional…”), but as the morning wore on, the vending machine coffee cups and chocolate wrappers had started to pile up, along with a makeshift wall chart filled with Sherlock’s ‘deductions’ (“Put together, those two facts tell me that this man had a difficult childhood, possibly even orphaned; probably sent away to a boarding school he despised. He must have been brutalised from a very early age…”), until it was getting more and more difficult to find the equipment she needed in the lab.

He peeled the Post-It from his forehead and stared at it for a moment. “Oh. I suppose I do have a vague idea of who that is”, he snarled, crumpling it up and tossing it lamely in her direction. “So Theodore wins that one.”

“It’s _Tom_. So, do you want to give me the tenner now, or—?”

“Double or nothing says I can get the next one”, he said, jumping down from his stool. “Oh come on, that was hardly fair”, he protested on seeing her expression. “You know most things from popular culture pass me by. Try me with a real person we both know.”

“Alright”, she sighed, mock-exasperated, snapping off her glove. She thought for a moment, grinned, and then made sure to cover up the distinctive curls of Sherlock’s own name on another Post-It before leaning across the desk to pop it on his head. “But this would be a lot more fun if we were both drunk.”

He gave her a look and began slowly pacing up and down in front of her bench. “Am I a doctor?”

“Nope.”

Sherlock looked momentarily confused. “Hm, alright. Do I work for the government?”

“No.”

“Am I…a landlady slash live-in cleaner?”

“No. And don’t call Mrs. Hudson a ‘cleaner’.”

“She loves it. Am I…a borderline incompetent detective inspector with a boring haircut?”

“No…?”

“Am I a dangerous but genius criminal mastermind at the head of a shadowy international organisation who pretended to be really into cats to go out with you?”

“No! And try being more specific, that’s the key to winning this game.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine. Those don’t count, then. Am I…intelligent?”

“Intelligent? Yes. Emotionally intelligent? No.”

He paused for a moment, then resumed pacing. “Do I live in London?”

“Yes.”

“Do I own my own house in London?”

“No.”

“Did I go to university?”

“Yes.”

“Does my job pay well?”

Molly thought for a second. The suits, expensive coat, occasional class A drug habit. “Yes, I suppose it must do.” Then there were the eyeballs he procured from her and kept in his fridge for experiments. “But you’ve got very generous friends.”

“Am I musical?”

“Yes.”

“Am I good looking?”

“Yes”, she answered without hesitation, and immediately flushed. “I mean no. Not in the conventional way. At least…most people wouldn’t think… But you are quite striking from certain angles… You wear very flattering scarves and your hair always looks… But appearance isn’t everything.” She tailed off, silently cursing herself.

“Right.” Shooting her a quizzical look, “Have I recently got out of a long-term relationship?”

“Pass.” Because really, who knew?

“Have I a good sense of humour?”

“Yes…? Yes and no. Sometimes you’re funny without intending to be and other times your jokes don’t really make sense. But do you have a good sense of humour…? Well, you have a sense of humour, it just, um. People don’t always find it humorous. At least, not at first.”

Sherlock stopped and leaned over her experiment. The pink Post-It with his name was still attached to his forehead. “I know who I am.”

“Look, I’m really sorry if that—“

“Given your hesitation in answering my last three questions, your unwillingness to describe me as either conventionally witty or objectively handsome, and, moreover, your obvious discomfort at being asked about my previous relationship history, I can deduce that you regret choosing me for this game—“

“Sherlock, I—“

“—Yet this is someone who you appreciate - appreciate, perhaps, more so than most people would. I could tell from your expression and the particular angle at which you inclined your head when writing down their name that this was a person who you knew intimately and saw regularly, in spite of the fact you clearly find them intensely, almost indescribably irritating. I mean, why else would you come to work at seven on a Saturday morning? ”

“Listen, this isn’t what you—“

“Could the underlying problem here, perhaps coming to a head the week before John and Mary’s own wedding, be that the person on this Post-It note, rather than putting down a deposit on a house with you, is sub-letting a grotty flat, your flat in fact, in pricy north London despite having a well-paid job, thereby living off the generosity of both you and a rich great aunt, who’s currently still in a detached house that’s far too big for her in Surrey? Or simply that they lack, as you say, emotional intelligence, continuing to watch _Game of Thrones_ in bed even though you’d prefer to read in peace and quiet or…do other things. Which leads me onto my final question, the tenth question, which is: am I or am I not the scarf-wearing boyfriend who graduated from the University of Bristol with a 2:2 in Biology in 1999 with the slender pianist’s fingers, and soon to be Mr. Molly Hooper - Thomas. Or Tom. Whatever his name is. I’m right, aren’t I?”

They stared at each other over the desk for a moment until Molly finally snatched away the Post-It. “Yep, that’s who it is. Well done.”

Sherlock spun around, clenching his fists with glee. “That’ll be twenty British pounds, then. On second thoughts, keep it. Consider it payment for tidying all this—”, he gestured towards the pub crawl map and assorted detritus he’d fanned out over Molly’s bench, “and sending it by courier to Baker Street, along with some Rizlas for John’s stag night. Unless”, he carried on as she started to protest, “I could just borrow yours?”

“What?” she shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll have you know I quit smoking before Christmas! Completely!”

He sighed. “Molly, please, your right earlobe is a dead giveaway.”

“How did—? Never mind. Take the ones in my locker. And I’m not clearing this away for you.”

“In which case I’ll be back later.” He threw on his coat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve an appointment with a tailor on Savile Row. Working on a case for a very important client. Need to identify the maker of a bespoke monogrammed silk handkerchief used to asphyxiate a victim.”

“Ah, so you’ll be needing this then—?” From amidst the mess Molly plucked out a piece of paper to which a number of different fabric samples had been attached, under the heading: ‘Handkerchiefs for John’s Wedding: Second-Best/Emergencies’.

Sherlock returned sheepishly to take it from her. “Thank you.”

She watched him leave, guiltily biting her lip.

“Listen”, she said suddenly, as he opened the door. “When John and Mary leave London — Well, I don’t mean _leave_ leave, I mean for the honeymoon, and possibly after that too, if he keeps his actual job, and, well, they’re bound to want to do things as a couple, aren’t they? Especially at the weekends. I mean, look - when John’s busy. I can take a few days’ off work. If a case came up. Or, you know, if you wanted to try jumping off the roof again. And if you wanted another wedding to plan…?”

An unreadable look crossed his face.

“What I’m trying to say is - I’ll be here if you need me. Whenever you need me. Except…please don’t phone me in the middle of the night to ask what I’ll be wearing again, because that really freaked everyone out last time.”

“I’m simply concerned that the shade of the yellow dress you showed me won’t be as flattering as you think it is”, Sherlock sniffed. “And that bow together with the shape of your face—“

Molly waited, eyebrow raised.

“Right. Sorry. Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Any time.” She held out her hand for a handshake just as he lunged in awkwardly for a hug; after a moment they settled for a slightly clumsy fist bump instead.

“Good luck with the…case.”

Sherlock nodded gravely, slipping the handkerchief samples inside his coat. “Thanks. And, er, your John Doe—” - he gestured to Molly’s experiment - “ _Radix pedis diaboli_ : Devil’s Foot. It’s a poison from a rare West-African plant that vaporises when exposed to heat, though it leaves alcohol-like traces in the liver. The slides you were looking at earlier? Soil particles commensurate with a very particular type of fertiliser needed to grow the roots in this country. I made a study of the subject a few years ago. From that and the spores found underneath the fingernail of his right thumb I’d say your man was probably a botanist. Either that, or he was killed by one.”

Molly grinned. “Doesn’t know who James Bond is, but knows about rare forms of fertiliser…”

He looked pleased with himself.

“Perhaps you should start a Pinterest board for African botanical poisons”, she suggested innocently as she returned to her microscope.

“Hmm, yes, perhaps I sh—“ He cleared his throat. “Goodbye, Molly.”

“‘Bye, Sherlock.”


End file.
